


Let's Overhear It For The Boy

by BrightWingsAndBroomsticks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coming Out, Dean being a good stranger, Graduate Student Dean Winchester, Gratuitous Vonnegut References, Homophobia, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Human Naomi (Supernatural), M/M, Naomi Being an Asshole (Supernatural), eavesdropping Dean, terrible parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24580549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightWingsAndBroomsticks/pseuds/BrightWingsAndBroomsticks
Summary: Dean specifically picked this spot in the back room for some peace and quiet. He absolutely did not want to find himself stuck listening to an exceptionally uncomfortable conversation at the table next to him. But, well... can't win 'em all...
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	Let's Overhear It For The Boy

Dean loves days like this. It’s the end of summer and classes will start up again in a week or so, at which point things like “rest” and “free time” will become the stuff of wishful thinking. But for now, for today, he is free to enjoy the last tiny gasp of his vacation. So, here he sits, at a small table in the quietest area at the back of the Roadhouse, lazily nursing his third cup of coffee as he re-reads _Breakfast of Champions_ ; happy as a pig in shit, as Bobby would say.

It’s between mealtimes at the moment, so the front section of tables isn’t especially crowded. But a couple groups of recently returned undergrads have been drinking themselves silly at the bar for the last two hours, making Dean’s usual booth a bit too loud for reading. He’s opted for the small back table area, setting up camp just behind the partition, and so far he’s got it all to himself. He doesn’t actually work here anymore (mostly), so Jo can deal with the rowdy day-drinkers on her own today.

Just as Dwayne Hoover is leaving the Burger Chef, however, Dean’s little bubble of peace is invaded by a pair of newcomers. Ellen doesn’t run the kind of joint that bothers with a hostess, so these people must have deliberately wandered back here on their own. And, to add insult to injury, they seem intent on sitting at the one small table directly to Dean’s right, rather than choosing any of the little round tables out in the middle of the floor back here. Spectacular.

Dean glances up as they remove their coats to sit, all set to offer the pair an insincere smile and tune them out, but his face freezes on instinct. The woman before him sends an inexplicable shiver down his spine. It’s not that he knows her or anything— he definitely does not. And her appearance isn’t somehow “wrong” either. Quite the opposite, really. This woman seems to take “not a hair out of place” quite literally. Her perfectly pressed suit is exactly the right shade of blue to offset her eyes and complexion; very striking, but not bright enough to draw unwanted attention. Her light hair is pulled back in its bun too tightly to allow for wisps, and her nails, free of colored polish or French tips, are still very clearly manicured. She gives Dean the creeps. Her expression, deliberately pleasant enough to pass their manic glint off as “intensity”, sets him on edge, makes him want to look away. She’s like a cross between Sam’s scariest law professor and every PTA parent who ever looked down her nose at the Winchester boys in their third hand clothes and ratty sneakers. Dean avoids this kind of person like the plague. And now she’s sitting down next to him, her back to the wall about a foot to Dean’s right, looking supremely out of place in this shabby-chic little bar.

Unwilling to get scolded by this strange and terrifying woman for staring, he averts his gaze quickly, barely sparing enough of a glance at her companion to ascertain that they appear to be male. Dean does NOT want to get involved in whatever is happening to his right.

He re-immerses himself in his book while trying to make himself as inconspicuous and unthreatening as possible. Neck deep in Vonnegut is a much safer place to be, even _with_ Dwayne Hoover going out of his mind there.

So, Dean reads, relaxing a bit word by word as he moves through the familiar lines. He even mostly forgets there are people around him.

Jo stops by after a few minutes, clearly doing her waitressing rounds as quickly as possible. She’s muttering angrily— the words “welcome week” leaving her lips more than once, surrounded by a torrent of expletives— as she whirls through, fills his coffee, and drops off a glass of water with a pointed stare at Dean. Then she whips back out to the front without even acknowledging his eye roll. The sound of glass shattering sounds at the bar. Stupid little adopted sister, handing him water like an angry babysitter— he _can_ take care of himself, no matter what Jo thinks.

Dean ignores the water in favor of the fresh joy in his much, and returns to the book. But not three minutes later his reading grinds to a halt again.

“Is this about Sam?”

That’s what gets his attention. It’s said by the man at the table next to him, and while there is very little chance this stranger is talking about _Dean’s_ Sam…well. Old habits die hard, and Dean has been worrying about his little brother since before he can remember. He keeps his eyes on the page in front of him, but tunes his ears in to the vaguely tense discussion next to him.

“It is, isn’t it?” the man continues, and the woman doesn’t miss a beat this time before she responds.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“No, mother. See, no one cared that I was going to be attending the wedding alone when I RSVP’d two months ago. But now that Sam has announced her transition, suddenly Raphael insists I bring a date? And my refusal is a crisis that warrants you travelling down from KC? How clueless do you think I am, Mother?”

The woman tsks at this. “Castiel, don’t put words in my mouth. I have not called you ‘clueless’, and you will note that _I_ was not the one to bring up your cousin Samandriel’s situation. But, since you have mentioned it, I do think you should consider the delicate situation this has put your father in, and our church as a whole. People are perplexed, and we need to make a clear showing of strength at the wedding.”

“And being unaccompanied at the reception somehow makes me ‘weak’?” Dean’s got to admire this man’s skill. He would be vibrating with rage at the implications of the woman’s last sentence, but the guy barely flinched beyond the thread of steel in his voice. Hell, Dean doesn’t even have a stake in this conversation, and yet he’s frozen in place staring like a startled deer at the drawing of a stork on page 166. The casual disdain in this lady’s voice on the word “situation”… Dean’s instinctual fear of the woman clearly wasn’t misplaced.

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Castiel. Arriving alone— a smart, accomplished young man such as yourself— it would raise questions. The exact sort of questions we would like to avoid. Which is why,” she continued, cutting the man’s inhalation short, “I would like you to consider inviting Daphne Allen to the wedding.”

The man— Castiel, apparently— gives a tiny breath of a laugh, entirely free of actual mirth. “Well, that’s very thoughtful of you, Mother, to have even chosen the appropriate woman out for me. What are you planning to offer her family in return? Two horses and a new quilt?”

“Don’t be crass, Castiel.” The woman’s voice is sharp now— a whip coated in honey. But she isn’t losing her cool. “I simply wished to offer you an option, in case your concerns were persistent. You know Daphne; I’ve seen you two interacting quite amicably at church functions before, clearly enjoying stimulating conversation. And she knows Raphael and the rest of the family, as well, so you needn’t keep by her side all day if you don’t wish. She can handle herself.”

“You’ve got it all worked out as usual, I see,” Castiel mutters drily.

“She is sweet, very bright, not to mention pleasant to look at,” she continues, undeterred. “I’m sure you could find much worse company for an afternoon.”

“Daphne isn’t a used car, mother, you don’t need to come at me with a sales pitch.”

“She admires you very much, Castiel, and I know she would be thrilled to be invited to Raphael’s wedding, especially as your guest.”

“Oh, so now I’m the one doing _her_ the favor? What happened ‘upholding the family honor’, or whatever it is Father wants?”

“I simply don’t understand your obstinacy, Castiel. I’m not asking you to marry the girl, or even properly court her. Why are you deadest against asking her to accompany you for one little afternoon wedding?”

“Because I’m gay, Mother.”

Oh shit. Ohshitohshitohshit.

It takes everything Dean has to keep from jerking in shock. Because he knows that tone. This guy is having a true, honest to goodness _coming out_ moment right next to him— the kind that has been building up in between words for years, the kind that just might send bridges up in flames, the kind that hangs in the air like a car stopped half way over the edge of a cliff. Shit is well and truly Going Down, and there is no way for Dean to escape now without making it painfully obvious he has been listening to all of it.

“Very gay. Utterly homosexual. As I am positive you have known for several years, at least, even if you will never admit it.” Castiel’s voice is getting stronger with every word and a part of Dean really wants to see the expression on Mrs. Buttoned-Up’s face. But, again: eavesdropping. “So, no. I will not be inviting Daphne Allen to the wedding. If I am forced to bring a plus one, I will do the choosing, and I will choose a man, as I would for any other wedding. I will not compromise on this.”

Well then. Dean’s gotta hand it to this guy— he’s got serious guts.

His mother, however, is unimpressed. She makes that prim little tsk noise again. “There’s no need to be so dramatic, Castiel. Intransigence is not a becoming trait. Just give Daphne a call, won’t you? I promise she’ll be thrilled.”

Out of the corner of his eyes— still frozen on that damn stork drawing… he should probably turn the page soon, at least for the sake of appearances— he sees Castiel shake his head as though dazed. “I’m— did you hear anything I just said?”

“Of course I did.” And, oh, yeah, there’s an edge of irritation in Suit Lady’s voice now. “And if you persist with this way of behaving—”

“Which ‘way of behaving’ would that be, Mother?” And, bless him, the man is doing actual physical quotation marks with his hands. “The insistence that I will have no plus one at the wedding? Or my homosexuality in general?”

“You do realize the damage this could do to the family, don’t you?”

Ouch. The force of those words, even at their viciously low volume, makes Dean want to physically shrink back into the booth partition to his left. He resists. (Barely.)

“So, the homosexuality, then,” Castiel replies, dry as dust.

“Castiel, this is serious.”

“Yes, Mother, it is.” And _yikes_ , Dean’s not sure he has ever heard the word “mother” pronounced with such venom. “This is my life. And while I rather thought you would disapprove of it, I had _hoped_ you would at least show some uncharacteristic compassion for long enough to acknowledge it.”

“Is that any way to address your mother?”

Shit; the detached sweetness is back in the lady’s voice, and it makes Dean’s chest feel tight. This is _not good_. This is a Venus Fly Trap moments from chomping down. But the guy still does not back down.

“I will treat you the way you feel you deserve when you show me some respect.”

There is an icy pause. Dean can feel the shock waves being generated by the staring contest next to him.

“You realize,” the woman begins, flatly cold and benignly sweet all at once, “that you will no longer be welcome in your father’s home.”

Another pause. Dean feels like he’s listening to a car wreck in real time— his whole body is on alert, tensed for flight, but he cannot bear to look up.

“Well,” the man replies, all steel now, sarcasm lost. “It’s a good thing I don’t live there anymore, then, isn’t it?”

“Castiel, you know there is penance that could be done to—“

“No, Mother. I will not deny myself you’re your benefit. Nor for Father’s. It’s not up for discussion. You either accept me or you don’t simple as that.”

There’s one more pause, as though each is waiting for the other to blink. Then, without a word, the woman stands, collects her purse and jacket, says “Goodbye, Castiel,” and leaves.

Her son remains behind, motionless, staring at the place where she was sitting only moments ago. They hadn’t even ordered anything yet.

Dean, meanwhile, is still frozen in place. The stork is taunting him, and his mind is swimming with a six-year-old memory, and the moment is hanging in the air like a broken little eternity.

No one in the back room moves. Some girls let out a “woo” up front, and people yell their orders at Jo, but the partition is marking the edge of their little petrified world. The woman in the suit is gone like smoke. There are only two humans, a book, and a pair of beverages in the whole universe. “Misty Mountain Hop” is playing over the speakers, and _oh god_ , Jo probably put this album on for Dean, but this is far too jaunty a soundtrack for this horrible moment and— shit— Dean has to do something.

Drawn up by a string of wispy thought, Dean’s right hand releases _Breakfast of Champions_. It moves slowly, not wanting to startle, and picks up the untouched glass of water. Before Dean is even fully on board with moving at all, his hand has delicately placed the cup down on the table to his right, and retreated back to its home on the spine of the book.

Slowly— ever so slowly— the man at the table blinks. Caught out anyway, Dean can look at him now, so he watches with coiled muscles as the guy’s gaze finally leaves the wall to rest on the plastic glass in front of him. The ice is mostly melted. The guy just stares there now, and Dean can practically see him struggling to make sense of what’s in front of him, like a camera lens attempting to focus in a pitch-black room.

And, finally, with a rush of horror, Dean realizes how supremely creepy he is.

“It’s not poisoned, I promise,” he says, mortifyingly, his voice hoarse with panic and general stupidity. “The uh—“ he clears his throat. What the fuck is happening? Is he having a stroke? “The waitress just brought it over. I haven’t touched it.”

With this idiotic series of words out in the open, the guy finally seems to realize there’s another person in the room. He looks up at Dean for a long blink-free second, then back at the water, then back up, and back down again. He blinks again. He picks up the water glass. He downs half of its contents. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes and seems to rejoin the mortal plane, dispersing whatever cloud his mom left in her wake.

And then his eyes snap open wide. Clearly he’s realized how fucking creepy Dean is.

Trying to send a wave of apology and harmlessness out into the ether, Dean shifts a little and drags his eyes back to his book. The last thing this guy probably wants is a fucking audience— Dean can at least _try_ to turn down the asshole eavesdropper vibes, can’t he?

But no, fate won’t be letting him off so easy. After another sip of water, the guy quietly says, “Thank you.”

Dean looks up. And, god, all trace of the righteous, uncompromising dude from ten minutes ago has evaporated, leaving a sheepish pair of eyes gazing at Dean through dark lashes, as though _he’s_ the one with cause to be embarrassed. Dean swallows.

“No problem.”

He should break the stare. He really should. This is an out— a natural end to an interaction that never should have started. It’s time to go back to his book and let this dude have some fucking privacy.

But then Mr. Blue Eyes is looking back at the glass cupped between his long fingers, and he looks so damn sad, suddenly, that Dean can’t bear to look away.

The guy clears his throat, though gravel seems to be a permanent feature of his voice. “I’m guessing you heard all that.”

Dean winces. “Uh, yeah— sorry,” he replies, completely at a loss for an actual adequate apology.

“Don’t be,” the guy says, apparently sincere. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your work.”

“Dude, no—” Dean says, not about to let this guy feel even worse on his account. “I’m the asshole listening to your private conversation. You do _not_ need to apologize to me. This isn’t even work. I’m just reading. And honestly, I’m super impressed by how badass you were, standing up for yourself and everything like that. I was a fucking mess when I had to come out to my dad, and there was a hell of a lot more yelling and shit being thrown by the end of that disaster of a conversation.” Mercifully, the babbling stops there. “Anyway. You do _not_ need to apologize to me.”

The guy looks a little stunned, understandably. So, Dean just awkwardly tries not to blush too embarrassingly hard. Why is he such a fucking disaster today?

His neighbor, however, leans in confidentially. “To be honest, that’s why I chose to have the conversation here. Mother would never want to make a scene by yelling at me in a public place. I couldn’t go to her territory, because she would have the advantage. And if she came to my home I would be unable to guarantee she would even leave, in the end. And either way, she would be in a private space where things could get much, much nastier. It seemed best to utilize the anonymity of a crowded space.”

Ah, well, that explained why they had bypassed the half-empty bar to sit directly next to Dean, then. Mystery solved.

“Wow, you really planned this out.”

The man— Castiel, according to Mommy Dearest— nods sagely. “Yes. I probably should have made her listen years ago. But since circumstances were finally forcing my hand today, I thought it best to be prepared.”

“Good call,” Dean offers. “Yeah, ‘surprised’ and ‘unprepared’ are not good things to be when coming out to a resistant parent. Trust me.”

“That certainly sounds ominous,” he replies, looking sympathetic. Then he extends his right hand across the chasm between their tables. “I’m Cas Novak, by the way.”

“Dean Winchester.” They shake. It’s nice. Until the weirdness of the whole scenario crashes over them like a tidal wave.

Cas withdraws his hand. He looks sad again. Dean can’t stand it.

“So, Cas,” he says, praying his improvised words will come out less creepy this time. “Is this the kind of situation where you’d prefer to be left alone? Or would it be better to be distracted? Cause I’d love to help, if I can, but I’m not real clear on the protocol, you know?”

With a hilariously serious nod, Cas says, “Yes, this is a rather strange scene to find ourselves in, isn’t it?” Then, _finally,_ he smiles slightly at Dean. “I believe I would prefer to be distracted, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Dean says, snapping the book shut smugly on that damn stork. “I’m just here to hang out, anyway. Enjoy the last couple days of freedom before the undergrads descend.”

“Ah, yes,” Cas agrees. “Grad student, then?”

“Yep,” Dean answers, relaxing back against the partition. “You?”

“I’m a doctoral candidate, so I feel your pain.”

That got Dean’s eyebrows up. “Impressive. What subject?”

“History, mostly of the medieval variety.”

Dean whistles his appreciation. “Fancy,” he declares, pleased to know that this vaguely tousled badass is also probably a raging nerd. Because yes, Dean’s been resisting the thought throughout their fraught exchange, but this guy is fucking gorgeous.

“And what are you studying?” Cas asks.

“Mechanical Engineering.”

Castiel’s eyebrows rise dramatically at that. “And you call _me_ fancy?”

Dean shrugs. “It’s just working with machines, dude. Not brain surgery.”

“And I just study dead people, if you’re trying to boil it all down. That’s no more ‘fancy’, as you say.” Oh, god, he’s doing the hand quotes again, and it’s so endearing Dean might explode. “And, anyway, I couldn’t tell you a carburetor from a transmission fuse if my life depended on it, so don’t knock mechanical knowledge.”

Dean squints, assessing. “I bet if I should you around a car engine you’d have the hang of it in no time.”

“Is that an offer?”

And, _oh._ They’re flirting now. That, Dean can do. Distraction successful! Apparently.

“If you want it to be. My Uncle Bobby’s got a scrap yard full of junkers we could take apart, if you’d like a lesson.”

Castiel’s smile is like a sun beam. It’s very distracting. “You know, I just might take you up on that?”

“Excellent,” Dean says, grin mirroring Castiel’s now. “You just tell me when, and I will make it happen.”

“Well, it sounds like I have next Saturday free all of a sudden,” Castiel says. At Dean’s confusion, he adds, “that’s the infamous wedding. I imagine I, like my cousin Sam, can consider myself uninvited.”

“Ah,” Dean replies, vaguely irate at the way Castiel is casually talking about his very recent disownment. “Well, you’re welcome to bring Sam along, if you want to make it a little party.” And, well, so much for the flirting. But Dean doesn’t have the heart to let anyone be alone while their whole family gathers without them.

“You know,” Castiel says, “I bet she’d love that. She used to be really into model trains when we were kids, but neither of us have ever been particularly aware of the inner workings of such things.”

“Deal.”

Just as Dean’s mind starts to flail around for a topic change (and his eyes stay locked with Castiel’s in a remarkably not-awkward stare), Jo returns to the back room.

“You got bail money on you, Dean?” she asks ominously as she stalks toward their two occupied tables. “Cause I might need it later.”

“Yikes,” Cast interjects, thankfully seeming to understand Jo’s dark humor.

“Tell me about it,” she replies as she turns to Cas, quite unfazed at being addressed by a stranger in such a moment. Nothing like waiting tables to get you used to eavesdroppers. “Can I get you something before your friend comes back?”

Crap. She must have noticed the lady when she filled Dean’s coffee and then missed the definitive exit that followed. He tries to beam the words “Abort Mission!” at Jo through his eyes, but Cas clearly has enough poise for the both of them.

“It’s just me, actually,” he says, even as anything. “I do seem to have stolen Dean’s water, though, so he might need another.”

Jo takes in the scene more closely, then, eyebrow raised in an excellent imitation of her mother’s most skeptical look. “You two know each other, then?”

“We do now,” Dean offers, amused now that it is clear Cas isn’t being triggered by Jo’s interruption.

“A bond forged in fire,” Cas adds, with a dry smirk at Dean. And, with that, the flirting is apparently back.

“Well,” Jo says, still glancing back and forth between them as she puts a menu on Cas’s table. “You take your time, then.” And, with a mortifyingly obvious wink at Dean, she’s gone.

“So,” Cas begins, picking up the menu. “I gather you know this place well?”

“Yeah, I sorta grew up working here,” he explains. “Jo’s like the little sister I never wanted.”

Cas nods wisely. “I see. So, do you have any recommendation?” Despite clearly indicating the menu, Cas somehow manages to make the question sound unbelievably salacious. Perhaps it’s the persistent eye contact he’s keeping up over the top of the menu.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean answers. “If you’re into meat, the burgers here are the best in the county. Highly recommend.”

“I am,” Cas says, still eyeing Dean. “Into meat, that is.”

There’s a beat as that settles over them. Then Dean slowly tilts his head, trying desperately to determine if that really just came out of Cas’s mouth.

Wincing, Cas says, “Wow, that was terrible.”

“Yeah,” Dean admits gently. “A little.”

“Please forgive me? I’d blame my recent shock, but I am notoriously terrible at pickup lines even in the best of times.”

“Is that what that was?” Dean’s chest is filling with warm adrenaline, and an interesting little hint of hopeful excitement.

“In theory, yes,” Cas confesses. “I’m afraid that’s where it was headed.”

Emboldened, Dean asks, “How hungry are you?”

And, oh, Cas’s head tilt is just as endearing as his air quotes. “For…food?” He clarifies.

That startles a laugh out of Dean. “Yes, for food.”

“Ah,” Cas says, relieved. “Not particularly, to be honest.”

Smiling, Dean leans conspiratorially toward his new friend. “Hey, Cas. You wanna get out of here?”

“You see,” Cas replies, “ _that’s_ how you pick someone up! Why can I never manage that?” Ad Dean’s blank look, he grins and adds, “and yes, I would very much like to get out of here, Dean.”

“Awesome.”

Dean’s smile makes his face ache as he tosses his book in his bag and leads Cas out of the bar.

What an excellent day.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by that day when I very nearly came out to my parents in a crowded restaurant! My own story ended much better than Castiel's - partially because the coming out ultimately did not take place in public, but mostly because my parents reacted well, anyway. 
> 
> I only hope that if this has ever happened to anyone in real life, they also had a Dean Winchester at the next table to offer a little solidarity.


End file.
